


Upside down

by Anneth_is_alright



Category: Youtube RPF
Genre: Christmas carol, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:38:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5473112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anneth_is_alright/pseuds/Anneth_is_alright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sometimes it hurts so much that it makes me wonder whether we would be better off if we had never met."</p>
<p>There are questions that will get answers, even if you don't want them to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upside down

**Author's Note:**

> Translated into Russian by extremely wonderful and lovely Shakhar [ here ](https://ficbook.net/readfic/3886218)

"Sometimes it hurts too much," he says. "Sometimes, when you're not with me but half the world away, I wonder if it is still worth it. The answer is always 'yes', but at times like these I ask myself whether we would better off if we had never met each other."

Oh Troye. You will get your answers, even though you don't want to.

***

"Tokki, wake up," Troye's mum calls gently, rubbing his shoulder affectionately, "You haven't even packed your bags yet, and we have to leave for the airport in a couple of hours."

Troye buries his face into the pillows, "Do I really have to go?"

"Do you really have to go to VidCon?" Laurelle mocks, "Of course, you don't, honey. You don't have to go to conventions, and you don't have to fly to LA, and you don't even have to post videos. You can always abandon your channel just like this poor kid did."

Briefly wondering to himself who his mum is referring to, Troye opens one eye to peek at her, "I went to bed at, like, 4 a.m. last night, I'm gonna be so brain dead after the flight," he yawns and stretches, pushing aside the covers. "Is Connor picking me up from the airport?"

What gives Troye an uneasy feeling is his mum's blank expression, as she asks, "Who?"

He still rolls with it, since she seems to be in quite a sarcastic mood this morning, "Connor. Have you talked to him? Will he be able to pick me up?"

His heartbeat quickens, when he takes in Laurelle's genuinely confused face, "Who is Connor?"

Troye pinches his arm, but the nightmare he has woken up to doesn't end.

***

A call from Emma catches him on his way to the airport. 

"How is the collab with Tyler coming up?"

Troye winces. Is this really the first question that needs to be asked?

"I don't know," he stalls, "Alright, I guess."

Emma sounds somewhat irritated by his vague and lackadaisical response, "It'd better be. You don't want to disappoint your 9 million subscribers, waiting for the 'Boyfriend Tag' part 3."

Troye inhales sharply, and his mum gives him a worried look from the driver's seat.

"I'll talk to Ty," collecting himself, he promises grudgingly. "We might want to do something more subtle though. Don't want to steal the thunder from my announcement."

Laurelle is eavesdropping unashamedly at this point, but Troye doesn't care - he has nothing to hide from his own mother.

"What announcement?" Emma is generally an exceptionally soft-spoken person but now her frustration, almost palpable, seeps through the phone.

"My EP announcement," Troye clarifies in a sullen voice, although he already understands.

There is no 'Wild'. 

There is no 'Blue Neighbourhood'. 

There is no one for whom he could have written those songs.

"Unless you're flying back to 2014 to announce TRXYE again, I have no idea what you are talking about," Emma's voice comes as if through a wall of wadding. 

Before Troye ends the call, he still manages to catch another thing she says, "And you might want to tone down the sad 'forever alone' tweets. The last thing we need right now is rumors about another depressed youtuber."

Troye just wishes she would stop talking.

***

"Ty, do you remember..." Troye corrects himself mid-sentence, "Do you know Connor Franta?"

"Connor Franta," Tyler repeats the name slowly, as if the feeling of how it rolls off from his tongue would trigger his memories. "Why does it sound familiar?"

Troye wants to punch Tyler in the face for this question.

"He is a youtuber." 

Well, that is not technically true anymore - Troye has learnt that much on his plane ride - but he still can't find it in himself to use the past tense.

"Wasn't he the cute one from o2l?" Tyler wolf-whistles. "Oh, I _definitely_ remember him now."

Dragging Tyler our of his homoerotic daydream, Troye prompts, "He stopped making videos almost a year ago. Why?"

Tyler shrugs noncommittally, "He must have fallen out of it, I guess. Ricky... Wait, was it Ricky or Trevor?" Tyler ponders for a second, before giving up, "Whatever. Someone told me that one day this Franta guy just straight up left everything, saying he was fed up with the whole ordeal."

If Troye knows one thing, it is that Connor would never get fed up with being creative. But then again, Troye doesn't know Connor anymore.

***

Troye enters the shop timidly. It is small, warm, and beautiful - essentially, it is everything that is Connor.

A tall blond guy in a plaid shirt greets him with a wide smile from behind the counter, "Good evening. Are you looking for something in particular?"

"No," Troye lies, his fingers automatically picking up a 'Back to Black' vinyl from its place on the central display. He adds in what he hopes is a conversational tone, "I was wondering... Connor Franta owns this place, right?"

The guy in front of Troye frowns and crosses his arms. Gone is the forthcoming, chatty hipster, replaced by this suspicious, protective man who inquires solemnly, "Who are you? What do you want?"

Dropping the album back to its place, Troye raises his arms placatingly, "I don't want anything." Another lie. "I'm Connor's friend." Not exactly complete truth this time either but Troye doesn't want to end up in a psychiatric ward.

The shopkeeper guy looks exasperated, "Look, if you are a reporter, I suggest you get out right now. _We_ have got nothing to tell you."

The sure, confident 'we' sets Troye's skin ablaze. 

But before he can find a snappy comeback, he hears the footsteps approaching. He can bet his own life on who this shuffle of small feet, clad in worn black toms, belongs to.

The boy looks skinnier, his jawline sharp and his cheeks almost hollowed, and his hair is shorter than Troye remembers, way too short for his liking, but this is still Connor. His eyes, his smile, his fuzzy sweater, not suited at all for sweltering LA weather, - this is still Connor.

This is still Connor, and he still likes to hold his boyfriend's hand a tad too tightly, and this is the first time Troye sees this from the third person's perspective, and he feels like someone punched him in the stomach. 

"Why are you yelling at customers? Are they asking for Andy Grammer album again?" Connor asks, smiling fondly, Troye's presence completely ignored for a moment.

The frustration seems to be leaving the shopkeeper's features as fast as it came, because he responds with a small grin. "Is this your friend?" he asks calmly, gesturing to Troye.

Connor turns to Troye as well, and there is this curious apprehension of a stranger in his stare, and his clear voice finally breaks the silence.

"I have never met this person in my entire life."

***

Troye knocks, and knocks, and knocks. His knuckles are red and achy, and he is suffocating.

Connor opens the door brusquely, and purses his lips in distaste, when he recognizes Troye's face. "Look, man, I don't know who you are but you're being really creepy," he spits out. "How did you find out where I live?"

Troye is at loss for words. Evasive answers come to him easily, but this is Connor, and Troye doesn't lie to Connor.

"I followed you here."

Connor's hand is still gripping the door handle tightly to the point where his digits go white, "Okay, I'm calling the cops if you don't leave right now." He takes a step back, his shoulders squared in a defensive stance.

But what makes Troye stop and reevaluate the situation is a hint of fear in Connor's eyes. 

Troye knows he was the cause of plethora of Connor's emotions at some point - irritation, jealousy, hell, even anger being one of them - but the boy has never been afraid.

So Troye exhales loudly, suddenly exhausted, and just pleads, "Can I talk to you?"

"I'm sorry, but no," Connor moves to close the door, however, Troye pushes the offending piece of wood back open. He is not strong - obviously - yet momentum is still enough to send the other boy stumbling.

Connor clutches the doorframe, steadying himself. "Get out," he grits his teeth, and there is this familiar way he clenches his jaw that lets Troye know that Connor means it this time.

But Troye can also be stubborn, and his blood is boiling, and this is the question of life or death to him, so he shoots back with an equally fiery "Talk to me, Connor!" and if he is shouting, neither of them cares.

"Isn't this what you wanted, Troye?!" Connor exclaims, "For me to never know you?!"

Troye recoils, as if burnt.

The door shuts in his face with a soft click.

***

The next time Troye sees Connor, the latter doesn't bother with putting on a mask of ignorance.

"Should have guessed that you will be back," he gives Troye a tight-lipped, insincere smile, setting his coffee mug aside.

"You can't just say shit like this and expect me to leave," Troye retorts with contrived ease, as he motions to the barista for another coffee. The bravado doesn't come effortlessly to him, and the beverage is very much needed.

Connor quirks a sarcastic eyebrow, but the menacing expression falls flat, so he slumps his shoulders dejectedly, "What do you want, Troye?"

Troye wants a lot of things - he wants his music back on the radio, he wants his silly, cutesy videos back on his channel, he wants his beautiful boyfriend back in his bed, he wants his life back.

"I want you."

Connor scoffs, "You are just fine without me."

"Are we settling on 'just fine' then?" Troye counters, receiving a coffee cup from the waitress gratefully. When the boy in front of him doesn't reply, Troye continues, "Are you happy, Con?"

"I could be," Connor avoids Troye's attentive stare, studying the specs of cinnamon in his latte instead. His phone, lying face down on the table, goes off, and when he flips it, Troye notices the alarm notification. "Oh, the irony," Connor laughs to himself bitterly, reaching inside his jacket to retrieve a bottle of plain white pills from the pocket. 

Troye has seen them before way more times than he would have preferred.

"Why are you still taking these?" he implores, panic making his throat constrict. "You were supposed to stop long time ago."

Gulping the pills and chasing them with lukewarm coffee, Connor offers him a sad, sorry smile, "No one was there to notice that I needed help until it got way too serious."

Troye's nails leave crescent-shaped indents in the soft flesh of his palms.

No one was there to notice that sometimes Connor hated the way he looked. No one was there to notice that his smiles were a bit too strained. No one was there to notice that he struggled to accept and love himself. 

Troye wasn't there.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

Connor's hands are warm when they squeeze Troye's cold fingers, "It's alright, Tro. I pulled through on my own." There is no trace of accusation in his calm, confident gaze.

"You didn't have to," Troye disagrees. "I abandoned you."

They fall silent for a minute. 

Troye catches a glimpse of their reflection in the clear glass of a window, and they are still holding hands, and this setup looks like they are just two lovers on a date, and it used to be their reality.

"I want us back, Connor. I need you."

"Are you sure that we are not better off without each other?" Connor asks, and there is a dark gleam in his eyes that makes them seem cold, almost eerie.

"I need you," Troye repeats.

"Then wake up. It is your dream, after all. Wake up."

***

"Mister, mister, wake up," the flight attendant shakes Troye awake with a polite smile, "We are arriving to Los Angeles in fifteen minutes."

The landing, the customs and the luggage claim are a blur. All Troye knows is that thirty minutes later he is standing in the middle of a crowded international flights lounge, looking around with hazy eyes.

"Oh my god, Troye, why is your phone off?" A soft voice from behind him asks nervously. "I've been worrying that I missed you somehow."

Troye turns, and here Connor is, right in front of him, holding out a plastic cup of this bitter bullshit that he calls double ristretto.

"You are here," Troye reaches out to him, his hand avoiding the outstretched drink and landing on the boy's shoulder instead. "You are actually _here_."

"Where else would I be?" Connor gives him a dubious look, before ruffling Troye's hair affectionately, "Aw, my poor baby," he cooes gently, "The jetlag must be getting to your head already."

Troye takes a step forward, wrapping his arms around Connor's smaller form, and okay, maybe making out in the middle of LAX at 11 a.m. is pushing other people's tolerance for PDA, and not a good decision in general, but Troye can't bring himself to care.

"Well, someone missed me alright," pulling away from the kiss, Connor laughs merrily.

Still refusing to let go, Troye nuzzles into Connor's neck, "You have no idea."

The other boy gives out a content sigh, "Let's get going, love, the traffic is really shit today." He frowns slightly, when Troye doesn't budge an inch.

"Promise me one thing, Connor," he whispers frantically.

"Anything to get us out of here," Connor jokes but his frown returns, when he takes in Troye's serious expression.

"Don't give up on us. Long-distance or not, I don't care, please, just don't give up on us. Promise you'll give us the best shot, okay?"

And although Connor doesn't understand why Troye is asking, he still understands what he is asking for.

"Best shot, Troye, I promise."

***

The lobby bar of the hotel is crowded but a handsome man inevitably catches Troye's attention. Swagger in his step, he approaches him confidently.

"Are you here alone?" he asks with a smirk, and the stranger - although he has a wedding ring on his finger - nods with an interested gleam in his eyes. Encouraged, Troye takes another step forward, "What is your name?"

The man puts down his drink - nonalcoholic, Troye notices - and introduces himself, "My name is Connor," he says.

And Troye feels smile tugging at his lips already, and notices that Connor bites back a grin of his own. When their eyes meet, they can't help but burst out laughing.

Connor is the first one to catch his breath, "I think at this point it is safe to say that roleplaying just doesn't work for us."

"Yeah, Tyler would be very disappointed," Troye leans in to plant a chaste kiss on his husband's temple, and if he notices a tinge of grey in Connor's hair, he doesn't mind at all. In fact, he digs it. Like, a lot.

Connor scoffs, "I think Tyler is way too much invested in our sex life," he quips, but there is no malice behind his façade of irritation.

Troye's hand is now traveling down Connor's side to stop on his thigh, "Speaking of, I keep thinking about that thing," he suggests, "You know, the one that you seemed to enjoy _so much_ last time," Troye adds with a Cheshire smirk.

"Oh, _that_ thing," Connor's breathing is heavy now, and his eyes flick down to Troye's lips, "I like that thing." His fingers curl into lapels of Troye's blazer, pulling him closer, "Yeah, I like that thing a lot."

No one can blame them if they leave the bar a bit too hastily.

When they get back home from the hotel at 6 a.m. next morning, while Troye fumbles with the keys to the front door, Connor asks suddenly, "Can you imagine?" Catching Troye's confused stare, he clarifies, "Can you imagine what it would be like if we never knew each other?"

Evasive answers became Troye's specialty a long time ago, but this is Connor, and Troye still doesn't lie to Connor.

"Yes, I've thought about it, to be honest," Connor peers at him curiously, so Troye continues, "but I wouldn't trade what we have for the world."

When they tiptoe into the house, Connor learns that not only did Troye arrange for the babysitter to stay overnight, but he paid her a few extra bucks so that she would feed the cats as well. 

Connor thinks that he couldn't love Troye more.

**Author's Note:**

> This Charles Dickens-inspired story is going to be my last tronnor work for the time being.
> 
> I'm not saying this to be unnecessarily dramatic, nor do I expect you to care. I just want to use this platform to remind you of something.  
> What always appealed to me as an older fandom member was the fact that tronnor shippers have unrelentlessly been mature, realistic, and down-to-earth. As the fandom expands, the mistakes are, alas, inevitable, and the only way to decrease them, in my opinion, is to kindly educate those who err on accident and completely ignore those who are rude on purpose.  
> What I urge you to remember is that Connor and Troye (as well as their friends, family and other youtubers as well) are real people, and they deserve their respect and privacy.
> 
> Other than that, I want to express my endless gratitude to those of you who read, liked and commented (and translated!) my stories. I could never imagine that they would receive so much positive feedback but then again, I was never one to have a vivid imagination :)
> 
> I still immensely enjoy both Connor's and Troye's creative content, respect their work ethics, and wish them all the best, whether they are together or not.
> 
> Merry Christmas, happy New Year and happy holidays!


End file.
